


Learning to Eat Soup with a Knife

by BarbariousBarbarian



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Dabbles, Gen, No Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-02-20 06:25:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13140939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarbariousBarbarian/pseuds/BarbariousBarbarian
Summary: A collection of dabbles.The Traveller legacy finds itself in sticky situations with awkward regularity.





	1. Noise Control

**Author's Note:**

> This group of stories formed my small part written for the 'canonical' set used by the Celestial Argonuats circa 2016 (formerly of Jung Ma/The Ebon Hawk, now of the Star Forge.) We didn't do much RP, but when we did it was either filled with terror or completely ridiculous. Sometimes both.
> 
> Hanoo and Bardot were shamelessly borrowed, with permission.

_Because sometimes you're having a dance party and elite adds spawn on top of you._

\---

Pretoria had a bad feeling about this. Nobody else seemed to though.

“Ooooh, this place is nice,” said Olsanna cheerfully. She flicked the light-switch, looking delighted when the lamps turned on. “It’s so fancy! And look how easy it was to get in here - we hardly picked that lock at all.”

Outside night-time was falling. A light drizzle had dampened everything, stealing what little heat remained. Finding someplace dry was blessing enough – this place was practically a palace.

Pretoria frowned in puzzlement. An empty palace. Rainwater dripped slowly off her armour and onto the fine carpet. An Imperial Medical Droid stood propped against one wall.

Hoplon swept around the room, checking for threats. There was a lot of sweeping involved, because there was a lot of Hoplon. “Seems clear,” he rumbled. By contrast Olsanna had already thrown herself onto the softest looking armchair, and was closing her eyes to sleep.

It was Zoe, though, who was by far exhibiting the most excitement. She flittered from cupboard to table-top, before pausing in a corner piled high with music records. Her bosom heaved with the force of her pleasure. “Look at all this… Ladye Relic’s _Sleen with No Name_ , Makeb Makeb’s _Skyhook Morning_ …” Zoe started pulling datapads out and dropping them to the floor, digging deeper into the pile. “Wait… wait…” she yanked out one record and stared at it in awe. “Primal Fear Nexu’s _Raw Cantina_?! Only five hundred of these recordings were ever released!” She spun around and promptly bounced off Hoplon’s bulk. She caught her footing, still wild-eyed.

Hoplon smiled. He nodded gently at the record player mounted on the wall.

In a twinkle of a smuggler’s eye, Zoe had dimmed the lights and set the music playing. A rhythmic beat wound its way around the room, snaking across the floor. The forceful, harsh vocals kicked in a heartbeat later.

The music seemed to physically compel Zoe. She kicked over a chair and started to dance, hands running up and down her body, trim and lithe. Her still-wet clothing clung to her in strategic places. Olsanna, grinning, abandoned her chair to jump atop a handy table. Her own dance wasn't really seductive at all - it was more a cross between a smuggler's shuffle and a serious medical episode. But critical mass had been achieved; in an instant the room was full of moving bodies, with Jedi and smugglers moving to the beat.

Pretoria, unnoticed, stepped outside and back into the rain.

Alone in the darkness stood Hanoo. She had tucked herself under the eaves of the house opposite, and a holo-caller was throwing shadows over the planes of her face. In her other hand she held an unlit cigarette.

Pretoria walked over, tucking herself under the eave. They watched the sheeting rain for a long minute. Finally, she offered Hanoo a light, which was accepted.

Hanoo took a deep drag before blowing out a long plume of smoke. “Republic regulation 4253-9a," Hanoo murmured, "prohibits the quartering of soldiers in private houses without prior arrangement. Violations are to be reported to the local authorities via police communications frequencies.” 

Pretoria paused. They were, after all, deep behind enemy lines.

Hanoo took another deep drag, before flicking off the ash. “Do you think Zoe will know who called it in?” 

In the distance came the faint wails of an Imperial emergency response unit, getting louder. Inside the house the sounds of the party continued unabated.

Pretoria stared out into the night. “I think,” she said, feeling the rain trickle down her cheek, “that you’re probably in the clear.” She shook her head slowly and pulled out her assault cannon. Hanoo pulled out hers as well.

“But seriously," Pretoria asked. "Why have you done this?” 

Hanoo scowled, tossing the butt and grinding it out. “Her taste in music is terrible."


	2. Temporary Blindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When one sense is taken away, others rise to compensate.

_Sometimes lag is so bad the tank literally cannot see. Sometimes your guildies are so good they talk you through a MM flashpoint anyway._

\---

When their officer stepped onto a landmine, Lusaka had been too close. The explosion consumed every one of her senses with its blast of pressure, its splatter of effluvia, and the scorch of its flame. She could taste the suffocation of smoke, and smell the blood.

But while Lusaka had watched Lt. Cowan vanish into pieces, she did not see its aftermath.

When she came back to herself, the world was pain. The raw agony of her eyes and face. The darkness of it all. She scrabbled against armoured hands which now pressed her down - where had they come from? - panicking and _pushing_. There was a wrench as those restraining her were torn away. 

She rolled to one side, head spinning, vomiting from the dizziness. One of her hearing aids was dead - she couldn’t even feel her ear anymore. The other was slowly readjusting its settings back to ambient volume. As it did so, she could dimly hear her own agonised screaming.

Below that was a voice of steel and frantic intensity, saying something over and over. Hanoo, the medic. “Jedi! Jedi, be quiet!” Those hands were back, firmer now, a strange mixture of harsh and soothing. “Be quiet or we’re all dead!” 

Now a canteen was being emptied onto Lusaka’s face. Suddenly she couldn’t scream, she was choking, half-coughing and thrashing. A second set of hands was added, and between the two they pulled her roughly into a half-sitting position.

“What the fuck is wrong with the kid, doc?” came Bardot’s voice, strangely muffled. “Fix it! Fix it now because we need to get the fuck out of here!”

Lusaka was now quiet, but couldn’t control her breathing. The world was a nothing, not even blackness - it was empty. Her blindness was complete. Claustrophobia pressed in, crushing her. “My eyes,” she whispered. Her legs kicked out and smacked off the tough skin of someone’s armour. Her feet were grabbed and someone threw their weight on top, preventing more damage.

More water splashed down onto her face, and a gauntleted hand grabbed her chin and wrenched it up. Her head was pushed back and forth, and Lusaka allowed it. “Your eyes are there, Jedi,” Hanoo said eventually, “they are both there and they'll work again, I promise. But you need to help us now, you need to be still, you need to calm down and help us.”

Hanoo was surprisingly kind all things considered. Lusaka had been through a lot of pain, but not much kindness. So Lusaka reclassified the medic as her Officer and struggled to do as she was told. As she stilled, wonder of wonders, the weight on her legs also stilled, and after a brief pause it was removed. A gauntleted hand - presumably Hanoo - slapped her shoulder and then dragged her up, dumping her on her feet. Lusaka felt water drip off her face and scrubbed it with a sleeve. The bitter copper of blood coated her tongue, and her chest heaved as she dragged down air.

Bardot’s voice came from somewhere off to the right. It was low and urgent; “Bruce’s dead, Han. Fuck! We need to get back to the ship and get the fuck out of here!”

There was the rustle of movement and maybe some sort of audible or visual cue Lusaka couldn’t catch, because suddenly she was grabbed and yanked, pushed down behind something else she couldn’t see. Her montrals collided painfully with the edge of a metal box, and Hanoo's gauntlet, reeking of blood and ozone, locked over her mouth, stifling her low cry. The world went still.

“Jedi,” Hanoo said in barely a whisper. “We need you. Connect to the Force.” 

Lusaka felt sick.

Then the trooper started to breathe. In and out, in and out. Deliberate and methodical.

Lusaka automatically started to breathe as well. In and out.

The life of the world flowed through her, slowly. Not images, exactly, but impressions. The horror of her sudden blindness receded. She felt Hanoo, all bloodlust and hunger and compassion. And there was Bardot, sex and cocky violence. But beyond their familiarity was a crawling ant-heap - agitated and hostile signatures, a good number of them rushing towards their location at top speed. Over them all loomed the dark presence of a Sith. This one was like a cancer.

Hanoo kept breathing, but was clearly waiting for an update.

Lusaka breathed out and tagged the gauntlet away from her mouth. “We're surrounded and they're coming,” she mumbled. “Let me up. I’m good. I’m good." Her other hand dropped to her side to grab her lightsaber.

There was a pause and then she was free. She was also suddenly the lowest priority in the situation.

There was the tell-tale slither of an armoured body leopard-crawling, before a sudden, quiet, and intense argument erupted. Hanoo appeared to be authoritatively reciting instructions to Bardot from the Republic’s infantry field manual chapter “How to Evacuate Wounded from Enemy Territory.” Bardot, in turn, was authoritatively reciting back to Hanoo instructions from the chapter on how she could go fuck herself.

Lusaka pulled her sabre free and damage-checked it by touch. It was too late to run. They'd have to kill their way out.

The argument behind her abruptly cut off with the first crackling whines of lazer rounds incoming. Lusaka activated her blade and stood to throw up a kinetic barrier. Behind her came the welcome metallic scrape of an assault cannon being dragged up, and the whisper of extremely tight pants vanishing behind something heavy.

“Luski,” Hanoo said, almost casually. “Can you block incoming fire blind?” Lusaka nodded absently.

The Sith was close. Lusaka could feel it - she could also feel his power. She couldn't beat him, but that was alright. That wasn't her task.

“Good,” said Hanoo approvingly. There was the faintest whine as the heavy cannon spooled up. “You do that. We'll take care of the rest.”


	3. Learning to Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life pro tip; if you’re main-tanking the op “Terror From Beyond,” you shouldn’t try to pull the final boss by running up to it.

Lusaka was bone tired.

The end was close though - their goal now lay just front of them. The older guildmembers really hated dimensional rifts for some reason, and the Guildmaster was no exception to that; she was always ordering them off to destroy some eldritch abomination or another. It had taken a half-day’s trek through reeking, globulous mud, but they had finally reached this one.

The hunting party had decided to halt for a couple of minutes before engaging. The break hadn’t strictly been necessarily, but they’d done it anyway, because it was a good idea. They were tired, hungry, and mud from the swamp had gotten into everything - every weapon, every sock, every electronic device. A misfire could be fatal. No – there was no harm in it, only good. The dead ground behind a little rise had provided enough cover for the group to stay hidden, helped along by a tall patch of grass. They’d set up a temporary defensive position, and very, very quietly gone to work.

The work was done now. They’d been there about an hour. Nev was standing watch, sharing a silent ration bar with an equally vigilant Exerties. The rest of the group rested quietly on every patch of dry ground available. All was still. Well – still except for Zöe and Bardot. They had quickly grown bored and had amused themselves by signalling each other messages in increasingly obscene handsign.

Just visible over the rise, the abomination lay oblivious. Its tentacles glistened in the warm sunshine. Occasionally it belched a cloud of noxious gas.

Lusaka didn’t really know what she was supposed to be doing, frankly, but that was alright. Knowing things wasn’t her job. She munched dutifully on some hard-tack and waited to be told. Honestly, the mud, the poor food, the smell - it was all familiar. She’d endured worse, for stupider reasons. And this time she was enduring it for people she liked.

A dragonfly alighted atop a still pool of swamp water, and Lusaka smiled in wonder at its beauty.

A tap fell on her shoulder, and Lusaka jerked around. Hanoo. “Luski,” the medic mouthed slowly. “Can you hear me?”

Lusaka tapped her hearing aides and shrugged helplessly. She’d pulled them out to clear them when the group had stopped, but the mud had gotten inside the casing. Hanoo grimaced and switched to handsign.

**You. Lead position. Attack/diversion…**

The last handsign Lusaka had never seen. A kind of squiggly throwing motion followed by a rally signal? She flashed the **“say-again”** sign, but Hanoo had already turned away. Luski felt a flicker of uncertainty – perhaps she should…? But Zöe and Bardot chose that moment to mud wrestle, and that was that, really. Lusaka figured she had the important parts anyway; it was the same as normal, right? Make sure the enemy was angry at her so it didn’t try to kill the officers.

A few slippery minutes later and the group was ready to move. Lusaka slid into the lead-scout spot. Hanoo’s hand lay firmly on her shoulder – when they were close enough, the medic would signal the attack by letting go.

A crawled approach was always agonising. Wincing over every footstep, ignoring every biting bug. Lusaka barely breathed, watching for the tell-tale tentacle twitch that would indicate the group had been sprung. They worked their way closer.

Hanoo squeezed her shoulder hard - a signal to be ready - and Lusaka allowed her mind to empty of everything but the present. When the hand came off a second later, she was nothing but shadow, a deadly piece of the living force, blurring as it rushed the abomination. For a brief second, she felt a craftsman’s satisfaction as her lightsabre’s blade scored a thin line across the thing’s flank.

That was the only thing she had time to think. The thing gave a delicate, fastidious flick, and the next thing Lusaka saw was an aerial view of the entire squad gaping at her as she flew, flew, far out of sight. Good thing the mud was soft.

By the time she had struggled back to her squad, they had finished off the monster. They were also collectively dying of laughter. Even Hanoo was doubled over, and she normally only laughed if something large was exploding.

**You…** the medic signalled as Lusaka approached, struggling to be clear through her mirth. **Attack/diversion…** and she stabbed out the unknown sign again.

Lusaka dripped miserably at her. **Say again** she signed.

Hanoo grabbed Lusaka’s hand and spelled it out on her palm.

**“Stay outside range.”**


	4. Mail Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mail Call at Joker comes with its own rituals.

“Mail call!” Sargeant Banjul cried, shaking the big red bag with glee. After two months in-theatre, administration had its bottlenecks. The postbag was straining under the weight of its load - it was stuffed full to overflowing, heaped with parcels, letters, and postcards. Pretoria groaned faintly. Troopers actually in the BT-7 orderly room brightened, and their fellows hurried to join them from every half-private nook and cranny of the starship. The faint smell of sugar lingered in the air.

“Trooper Malabo!” Banjul cried, reaching into the bag and tossing over a single letter. “Trooper Rabat!" Another letter was thrown out, and a parcel. "Trooper Funchal!” Two letters and a postcard were sent on their way. The vast bulk of the bag’s parcels and letters remained untouched.

The sargeant eyed his delivery list and smirked. “I’m sorry ladies and gentlemen,” he said, to general disappointment. “It seems the rest is postmarked for the Lieutenant. That we should all be so lucky in our families. Boss, could you sign for all this please?” 

Pretoria gave him an unimpressed look, pulling out a postcard at random. The Troopers in the room didn’t move from their seats, quietly murmuring to one another but still eager. They seemed to be waiting for something. 

The picture on the back of the postcard was of a sunlit beach, and the front had its writing partly covered by a huge Nabooian postmark.

 _Dear Pretoria,_ it read smudgily, _I am away on Jedi business again. I can’t tell you where I’m ~~staio~~ stationed now but I can tell you that the water is beautiful. Make sure you change your socks frequently when you are in the field or you will get sick. I have sent supplies. Hope to see you soon, love Dad._

Pretoria smiled ruefully. Her Dad adored Naboo; he loved the swimming, loved the wargames, and loved playing pickup Huttball before a kicking back with a cold beer. By the date of the postmark he had been there fairly recently. 

“How is the old man?” asked Banjul, holding out the receipt form. He seemed to be waiting for something, the same as the rest of Joker. His smile was predatory. 

Pretoria scrawled her signature. “Still alive,” she said. “Still training for fun. One of these letters should have a pic… yeah, here it is, this one.” She pulled out one slightly thicker letter and tore it open. Inside lay a holodisc of a shredded Zebrak man benching weights and grinning. He looked to be in his mid forties. In the background, other weights seemed to be suspended in midair. 

Banjul leaned forward in amazement. “Is Master Gytherod... lifting weights... while force lifting other weights?”

Pretoria nodded. “No one really knows why he does that. When people complain about him hogging all the equipment he tends to tell people it’s one of the mysteries of the Force.” She idly pulled the note out of the envelope.

_Dear Pretoria. Youre old man beat all the locals at a benching contest, you would be proud. I heard from a friend who has a friend stationed on Hoth that Joker was also on Hoth and was caught in an ambush. I hope you stayed warm and ~~remamber~~ remembered to eat your ~~vitimin~~ vitamin paste and powdered your socks. I have attached some pocket credits and sent supplies. Love, Dad._

Pretoria sighed heavily. Banjul’s shoulders shook in silent laughter. She picked out another letter at random and thumbed it open.

_… worry that you haven’t found someone nice, but my friend has this kid…_

Pretoria slammed that one back into the pile of letters and stepped back, clearing her throat. “Ladies and gentleman,” she announced to the orderly room attempting professionalism. Troopers brightened with anticipation, looking expectant. She hoisted the bag. A platoon’s worth of raw desire focused down on it. Greedy eyes followed its every sway and movement. “The Jedi Knight Gytherod has kindly sent us supplies, which today appears to be... eleven kilograms of assorted lollies.” Pretoria sighed heavily into the exultant silence. “I call first dibs on the jelly-sleens. Please form an orderly queue.”


End file.
